


Just Another Day in the Post-Apocalyptic Wasteland

by Saone



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Clint is a BAMF, Gore, M/M, Post Movie, Suspense, zombie related violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:11:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saone/pseuds/Saone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zombie AU. Clint should always carry a grappling arrow. Just in case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Day in the Post-Apocalyptic Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Not betad, grammarians beware. Zombie-related gore and death. No main characters were harmed in the making of this fic.
> 
> Yes, this is a zombie fic, everybody. Leave reality and logic at the door, thank you.  
> So, 28 Weeks Later had been sitting on my DVR since the beginning of July and I finally got around to watching it. I remember trying to watch it when if first came out on DVD - because, zombies \o/ - but stopping for some reason, and it only took me about half an hour before I realized why I couldn't get through the whole thing the first go around. Now, I understand why characters in horror movies have to have a certain level of stupidity - or else no one would go into the creepy basement - but _come on_. Ugh. Anyway, I kept watching this time because of my new ~~obsession~~ appreciation of Renner, and then _that_ scene happened, and _come ON_! Really?! Stupid movie. And then I had to write this fic.

Clint and his case gets dropped off first, as always. The Quinjet hovers long enough for him to scope for movement then use a line to drop down the thirty or so feet to the rooftop below. Nat and the rest speed off, leaving Clint to take his gun out and make another, more thorough, sweep of the area. 

He catches a bit of movement in his peripheral, and he's turning and firing in one smooth motion. He catches the infected between her eyes. She drops, her thin face still a rictus of rage and hunger. Clint swiftly puts another bullet beside the hole the first one left. Just in case.

"Hawkeye?" 

Clint can hear the terseness in Nat's voice, even over the earbud.

"S'okay," he says into the mic on his collar. "I've got the access door. Securing it now." Clint holsters his weapon and takes a mini torch and some solder out of one of the pockets on his vest. He does a quick and nasty weld on the door. It won't hold under a massive barrage, but it should be enough to slow down anything trying to get out.

Clint really wishes one of the 'higher skills' lost to the infection was the ability to use door knobs and understand basic building plans. Finding stairs when one want to go up seems to be instinctual, regardless of how much one's brain is eaten through by a rage virus.

Now that he doesn't have to worry about being eaten in the immediate future, Clint feels a certain amount of tension leave his frame. He retrieves his case and walks to the south edge of the building. Putting one booted foot up on the parapet, Clint leans over the side of his six story perch and takes in as much of the scene as he can. He makes a few mental notes for Bruce on how many infected he sees and how they seem to be fairing. 

On average, their numbers appear to be dwindling. The human body is still a generally frail thing - even with a super virus coursing through it's system - and without fuel and hydration even the strongest host collapses. The infected had pretty much exhausted their main food source - people, naturally - and most animals seem to be too fast or skittish for them for them to catch.

Bruce thinks that, eventually, the infected will simply die off. The key is to keep the still viable parts of humanity alive long enough to reclaim the land once they're gone.

Clint quickly assembles his modified rifle and checks his ammunition. As with every other time he does this, Clint promises himself some quality bow-time when he gets back to the carrier. The bow is still his preferred weapon, but even Hawkeye can't draw arrows fast enough to deal with a swarm of crazed cannibals. 

He rests the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, looks through the scope, and swiftly eliminates any infected he sees. Thirteen shots ring out. Clint lifts his head and scans the area again. He can see some infected come out of other buildings, including the store that's their target today. Clint fires a few more shots, and the Infected instinctively run towards his position.

Clint has a moment's doubt when he thinks about the weld, but he pushes it away. This isn't his first time in the hot seat.

"Okay, guys," Clint says into his mic, "I've got their attention. Be quick."

He hears an affirmative from Nat, and the Quinjet comes in to neatly land in the target store's parking lot. Clint keeps watch as Steve leads five S.H.I.E.L.D. agents out of the jet and across the pavement into the store. 

The jet and its occupants attract just as much attention as Clint, and he keeps himself busy by picking off anything that gets too close. He doesn't check his watch. He trusts Steve to keep things moving.

There's the tiny, but still sharp crack of muffled gunfire. Steve must have found some infected inside too. Clint doesn't check with Natasha. He knows she'll tell him if he should be concerned.

His ears are still straining, though, but the next thing he hears is a little closer than he'd like. There are thumps coming from the access door.

"That was fast," he mutters. "C'mon, Cap."

Clint takes out another three infected that get too close to the jet. The thumps on the door get louder and faster. He can hear the handle jiggle erratically, then there's a solid clunk as it hits the ground. 

Clint whips his head around. He can see bloodied fingers poking through the hole where the handle used to be. The weld still seems to be holding, though. He makes himself take a deep breath and refocuses his attention on the street.

He picks off another four infected and wills Steve to move his super ass.

The door is shuddering. They know meat is near; they can smell him. They're starving, and psychotic, and nothing but rabid animals now, and not even a metal door is going to stop them for much longer.

Clint touches his mic. "Nat, I'm gonna need-"

"Steve just said they're almost done," she says. "Hold your position." It's her brusque tone that tells Clint she cares.

"Hold my position," Clint repeats to himself. He chuckles dryly. "Sure. Why not." He takes another deep breath and steadies himself. He has faith in his skills. He has faith in his teammates. 

He has faith that his future's going to get pretty damn messy.

Clint takes a few more shots, then, thank Christ, Steve and his agents barrel out of the store. They're all pushing heavily laden shopping carts full of medicine, and non-perishables, and things they haven't been able to start growing for themselves yet. Clint can already tell it's not going to be enough; they'll need to raid at least one other place before they head home.

He hopes someone remembered to grab some canned pumpkin. He's been almost _itching_ for a pie.

There's a loud crack from behind him.

"Fuck! They've taken the door," he says to Nat as he smoothly pivots and takes aim at the things trying to come onto the roof. They're jammed in the doorway, a writhing, squriming mass of flesh and teeth. It would be comical if it wasn't so terrifying.

"Copy that," Nat says. "Does that mean we no longer have cover?"

"Jesus, Nat, what do you fucking think?" Clint takes as many head shots as he can and hopes that the newly dead might act as a bit of a barrier between him and the rest of the ravenous horde. He inches back as far as he dares. 

"It was a simple question, Barton. Keep your shorts on."

Clint laughs because he has to do something and screaming is not an option. The first bodies are shoved out of the way, and Clint kills the three who take their place. There's gunfire from the ground, and Clint can't help but silently apologize for not doing his job.

The bodies in the doorway seem to swell forward. Clint discards his rifle and gets his pistol up as about a dozen infected spill out onto the roof. They're climbing over each other, snarling and snapping, and focused so completely on him. He shoots some, but the others find their feet and rush towards him.

Clint will keep fighting. He'll keep fighting until they get close enough that he can see their eyes, and then he'll take a step back because he'd rather leave this world as a stain on the pavement than have any part of him go down someone's gullet.

But maybe, just maybe, there's a third option.

As Clint steps over the edge of the roof he swears he can feel fingers grasp at his jacket. He can definitely hear Natasha's voice squawk in his ear. She sounds pissed, but Clint has other things to worry about at the moment, namely the infected who decided to barrel over the edge of the roof after him. Luckily, none of them were aware of the tiny ledge fifteen feet down the building, and even if they were, there was no way they'd be coordinated enough to grab onto it. 

"Well, that worked," Clint says as he holds on one-handed to the decorative accent that some wonderful architect decided would add interest to an otherwise bland facade.

"Clint?!"

"Roof pick-up's gonna be a no go," Clint says as he holsters his weapon then uses both hands to pull himself up.

"No shit. What the hell did you think you were doing?!" 

"Uh, trying not to get eaten. Duh." The ledge is about half a foot wide, and Clint balances on the balls of his feet as he considers his options. 

The jet starts to lift off and another voice comes into his ear.

"Clint?"

"Hey, Steve," Clint says. "What's up? How ya been?"

"What do you need us to do?" Steve asks.

Clint takes another glance around. There are windows dotted along the ledge, the first one about three yards from his position, glass opaque and hiding who the hell knows what. He can't go back up - even if there weren't still infected waiting, there's nothing for him to climb. He can't go down - there's another ledge further down the building, but there's no way he could guarantee catching something like that a second time. The nearest buildings are either too far to jump to or higher than the one he's on now. 

He'd sell someone else's firstborn for a nice grappling arrow.

"Clint?" Steve says again.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm thinking." Clint lets out a long, low breath. "Tell Nat to get up high and hover for a bit, okay? I'm gonna have to go inside."

"What? Clint, you can't-"

"I can, and I will because that's the best way for me to get down. Give me another option, Cap, and I'll listen to it."

Steve's silent for a few long seconds. "Natasha could get the jet close and you could jump."

Clint laughs. "I'm impressed by the skills you think I have, Steve, but that's not gonna happen. If I go inside, I'll at least have a fighting chance. If I try and jump from his ledge to the jet, I'm gonna end up face-planting into the street."

"Natasha's on the comm back to the carrier," Steve says. "Tony's gonna get his suit out."

Clint's touched. Tony had barely left his workshop since the outbreak began - someone needed to make sure all the new arc reactor technology and fuel cells kept humming. It's nice that Tony would volunteer to leave his projects just to rescue Clint's ass.

"That's sweet, man, really," Clint says, "and you tell him I said that. But we're over an hour away from the carrier, and there's no way I'm gonna be able to hold this position for that long. And, quite frankly, I'm not sure how much longer this ledge might hold me."

"Clint, Phil says-"

Fuck. "Steve, I told you what I'm planning on doing as a courtesy. Now, shut the fuck up and let me work, all right?" Clint can almost feel Steve's disapproval, but, Jesus Christ, he kind of needs to concentrate right now.

And the last thing Clint needs is to hear what Phil might want to tell him. It's not that Clint thinks Phil is going to make Steve pass on any sappy, end-of-the-line decelerations. On the contrary, Clint's afraid that he's the one who would start blabbing, and no one needs to hear that.

Phil already knows that Clint loves him; there's no point in pouring salt into what might end up an open, festering, and virus-infected wound.

Clint shuffles his way along the ledge until he gets to the nearest window. He puts his hands up to the glass and peers inside. There doesn't appear to be any movement, so Clint takes his gun out of his holster and uses the butt of it to break the glass. He quickly puts in a fresh clip and, mindful of any shards left in the sill, slips inside the building.

The window leads into what looks like a standard office. Keeping the gun in his left hand, Clint uses his right to take a mini flashlight out of one of the pockets on his vest. He quickly scans the room. Every surface is dusty and the air stale, but it's clear. And, best of all, some wonderfully conscientious and compliant soul had stuck a laminated fire escape plan on the door.

Clint studies the plan, making note of where he is and where the building's staircase is located. He knows that once he gets into the stair well, every noise he makes will echo like crazy, and he'll probably draw the attention of anyone left on the roof and possibly any stragglers on the other floors too.

Going down that way's a risk, but unless he can fine a couple dozen bed sheets to tie together, it's Clint's only option right now.

Clint pauses before he opens the door. "I'm going radio silent," he says softly. "Keep the comm open. If you hear me go down, then you need to make Nat take you back to the carrier, understand?"

There's silence for a few long moments. Then Steve's subdued voice comes into Clint's ear. "Understood. Good luck, Hawkeye."

"Thanks, Cap." Clint feels shitty about basically asking Steve to listen to him die, but he also knows that his friends are a tenacious bunch. Hopefully, if Clint goes out screaming, that'll be enough to make sure no one risks their own life to come looking for him.

Clint takes a deep breath, puts the end of the flashlight between his teeth, and opens the door. The light immediately goes back in his right hand, and he keeps it up and centered over the barrel of his gun. He makes a sweep of the room - some kind of outer office - before he heads for another door. This one leads to what looks like a reception area. 

There's the faint smell of rot in the air. Clint doesn't know if that signifies a fairly fresh kill or if the stench is lingering because the floor had been sealed up like a tomb. 

Clint swiftly moves to the final door and then into the long, dark, inner hallway beyond it. The smell is exponentially stronger now. Clint starts breathing through his mouth. The taste of decay coats his tongue.

He checks both right and left, his small beam of light barely making a dent against the darkness. He doesn't see any infected, but he does see where that godawful stench is coming from. 

There are... _parts_ littering the floor.

Clint tries to ignore them, but it's a little hard when his boot lands on something soft and squishy. He lets out a curse and tries not to gag. He can vomit all he needs to after he's safe. 

With his jaw firmly clenched, Clint swiftly moves down the hall towards the stairs. He plays his light over everything in his path, but, really, his famous vision is almost useless in the near darkness. His other sense are starting to pick up the slack, though. The infected aren't exactly known for being stealthy, and Clint can almost imagine his ears pricking forward, trying to catch the slightest sound.

Clint makes it to the stairs without being accosted. He takes a few deep breaths, puts the flashlight between his teeth again, and, as quietly as possible, opens the door. The flashlight goes back in his head, and his shoulder goes against the door, as he scans the stairwell. 

He hears it coming - snarling and scrabbling - before he sees it. Clint instinctively turns toward the noise, and as soon as his light lands on that twisted, inhuman face, he puts a bullet right between its bloody, red eyes.

Clint winces, not only from the loud crack that has his ears ringing, but also from the knowledge that anything else that might have heard it is going to come running.

With two of his senses compromised, Clint forges ahead. He rounds the corner of the stairs and another infected comes out of the darkness. Clint puts a bullet through its eye and has passed it before the body hits the ground.

"Be advised," Steve says, his voice muffled thanks to Clint's damaged hearing, "the infected on the roof have gone back inside. They're probably headed your way."

"Thanks," Clint mutters. He's moving as fast as he dares - if he slips or falls, he's done for - but Clint has this nagging, horrible feeling that he's not going to be fast enough. 

As he rounds a corner, his light plays off a number by the door. Fourth floor. Thirty seconds of pounding feet later and he's passing by the third. Close. He's close. But so are they. Clint can _feel_ them.

Maybe he's paranoid, or maybe there are flesh eating monsters on his tail.

On the landing for the second story, Clint hauls open the door and sprints into the hallway. He spins and plants his feet just as the first infected comes rushing at him. With a calm Clint can't quite believe he possesses, he squeezes off shot after shot, and goes six for six. 

Clint's breathing hard, but he waits. When nothing else comes through, he allows his shoulders to droop just a bit.

"Hawkeye," Steve says, his voice hard, "there are hostiles entering your building at ground level."

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Clint grounds out before he can stop himself. "Fuck!"

He's on the second floor which means the infected will be here as soon as they find the stairs which means any minute. Clint strides down the hall, trying doors as he goes. When he rounds a corner and trips over what turns out to be part of a leg, Clint realizes that he's not even registering the smell anymore.

"Ugh," he mutters, "when I get back to the carrier, I'm using all the hot water ever. Like, ever. And that stupid expensive shampoo that Tony thinks we don't know he hordes, and an entire tube of toothpaste, and maybe some nose spray, and-" Clint cuts himself off as the latest handle he's grabbed turns easily.

Clint hurries into what turns out to be another office. He shuts the door and shines his light over the doorjamb. There's metal plating by the lock, and Clint holsters his gun and gets out his torch and solder. 

It's a risk, taking the time to do this, but even a flimsy weld will slow the infected down longer than dragging a pile of furniture in front of the door. Clint _thinks_ he knows how he's going to get out of this, but having a little extra, infected-free time would be nice.

Clint's barely gone twenty feet into the office before the first body hits the door. He rolls his eyes. " _Really_?!" 

He keeps going, and, after a moment's more searching, he finds what he's looking for - another office with a window. Clint does another quick and nasty weld on this door, then crosses over to the window and breaks the glass. 

He may be on the second story, but there's still a good twenty to twenty-five foot drop to the pavement. He could make it. Probably. Maybe. If he tucked, and rolled, and prayed nothing snapped when he landed.

Then again, his circus days are a decade and a half behind him. He's not as young and spry as he used to be, and what _exactly_ is he thinking?

Clint hears a muffled crack from somewhere behind him.

Oh, yeah. Zombies.

"Ah, fuck it." He climbs out onto the sill and looks down. "Cap, I'm coming out of a second story window on the East... Oh, hey, sweet." Clint blinks down at the yellow and green striped awnings that dot the first floor of this side of the building. Maybe he won't horrifically injure himself after all.

"We've got visual on you, Clint. What do you want us to do?"

"Tell Nat to get as low as she can, and be ready to drop a line for me."

"Roger that."

Clint watches as the Quinjet comes into view. Nat keeps her steady as the back bay opens. Steve hangs out and gives him a thumbs up.

Clint climbs out onto the ledge, checks his angles, then drops. His breath goes out of him in a huff when he hits the awning. He rolls and easily drops to the sidewalk. The line comes down about a hundred yards in front of him, and Clint sprints towards it.

He doesn't know if anything's chasing him; he doesn't take the time to look. When he reaches the line he wraps it around his right arm, and as he's twisting his legs around it, the jet abruptly rises. Clint swears he feels something scrabble at his boots, then he's gone, lifting into the air. 

He doesn't look back.

The line starts to retract, and Clint is pulled up towards the jet. When he gets close enough, Steve's strong hands grab onto his shoulders and haul him inside. Clint's face is promptly smooshed against a super-sized chest as Steve tries to hug the stuffing out of him.

"Did you get my pumpkin?" Clint manages to ask.

Steve shakes his head, but Clint thinks it's more from annoyance than an actual negative to the question. He then drops his arms from around Clint and all but shoves him towards the cockpit.

As he goes, Clint nods at the agents Steve had led into the store. They stare at him, wide-eyed. 

When he reaches the front of the jet, he slides into the co-pilot's seat. Natasha doesn't say anything; she doesn't even acknowledge him. Clint knows that she's still in a mission mindset. He also knows that later tonight there will probably be curses and tears shared over some of the bathtub hooch that Maria's been brewing in her downtime.

He's okay with that.

He picks up the spare headset and slips it on. Before he can even open his mouth to speak, Phil's voice comes into his ear.

"Did you really tell Captain America to shut the fuck up?"

Clint turns in his seat and scowls over his shoulder towards an unrepentant looking Steve. "Tattletale." 

"Hawkeye?" Phil says.

"Yeah."

"You've still got one more stop to make before you return to the carrier."

Clint stifles a sigh. "Yep."

"I'd greatly appreciate it if you could try and stay not dead."

"I'll do my best," Clint says because that's the only kind of promise he's going to make.

"It's the paperwork that would be involved."

Clint grins. "Of course."

There's silence for a moment, and when Phil's voice comes back it's a little lower, a little rougher. "Clint..."

"Yeah," Clint says, closing his eyes. "Me too."

_____________

end


End file.
